Wicked Uncle by Patricia Wentworth Read Free Book Online Page B

Lamb himself had been halted by it and brought to unwilling apology. It went straight through the manager’s self-esteem and stripped him to his bare bones. He found them chilly and uncertain of their footing. When you have been kept together by conventions and clothed with observances, it is very disintegrating to be left without them.
    “I beg your pardon,” said Miss Maud Silver.
    The manager found himself apologizing. She had spoken quite quietly, and he knew now that she was neither an eccentric duchess nor any lesser member of the aristocracy. But the authority behind that quiet tone had him rattled. He paused in his not very well chosen phrases and discovered that he was being addressed. He had the quite unwarranted feeling that he was being addressed from a platform. He had the unusual feeling of being something rather lowly in the scale of creation.
    Miss Silver treated this frame of mind with firmness.
    “You would, perhaps, care tor me to furnish you with proofs of my credibility as a witness. This is my business card.”
    From the shabby black bag which depended from her left wrist she produced and laid before him a small, neat pasteboard rectangle. It displayed her name in the middle—Miss Maud Silver, with, in the left-hand bottom corner, an address, 15 Montague Mansions, S.W., and in the corresponding right-hand corner, the words, Private Enquiries.
    As he absorbed this information, Miss Silver continued to address him.
    “If you will be so good as to ring up Scotland Yard, Chief Detective Inspector Lamb will tell you that he knows me well, and. that I am a person to be believed. Detective Sergeant Abbott, or in fact any of the officers on the detective side, will be able to assure you that I have the confidence of the police. If, of course, you are prepared to admit that a mistake has been made, and to offer to this young lady an unqualified apology, we need not trouble Scotland Yard.”
    The manager, thus baited, turned with ferocity upon the shopwalker. His diminished ego obtained some helpful support from having a subordinate at hand to bully.
    “Mr. Sopeley!”
    “Sir?”
    “On what evidence did you act? This lady says that one of the assistants came up and spoke to you. Who was it, and what did she say?”
    Mr. Sopeley began to see before him the unenviable role of the scapegoat. An elderly survivor of the war period, his tenure was not so secure that he could afford to have it shaken. With a feeling that his collar had suddenly become too tight for him, he stumbled into speech.
    “It—it was Miss Anderson. She said a lady had whispered to her that this—” he paused and swallowed—“this young lady was filling her pockets, and she thought she ought to mention it.”
    “Then why is she not here as a witness?”
    “She said she had a train to catch,” said Mr. Sopeley in an ebbing voice.
    The manager’s bald head became suffused with an angry flush.
    “Miss Anderson should have detained her.”
    Perceiving a possible ram in a thicket, Mr. Sopeley agreed that Miss Anderson had been very remiss, though just how she could have detained a determined customer in full flight to catch a train, neither he nor the manager was prepared to say. In a tone of virtuous indignation he remarked,
    “I spoke to her quite severely on that point, sir.”
    Miss Silver intervened.
    “It is perfectly clear that this woman who brought the accusation and then disappeared is the person who placed the stolen goods in this young lady’s pockets. I would press you now to ring up Scotland Yard. A full and unqualified apology is due to this young lady, and I shall not be satisfied until it has been offered.”
    Chief Detective Inspector Lamb lifted the receiver from the instrument on his office table. The voice of Sergeant Abbott came to him.
    “I say, Chief, here’s a lark! I’ve got the manager of the De Luxe Stores on the line, wanting to know if Maudie is a credible witness! He’s asking for you. An